


Behind Bars

by Artifex_Verbum



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, First Time, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Prison Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:55:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25853965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artifex_Verbum/pseuds/Artifex_Verbum
Summary: Malcolm is 22 and goes to visit Martin with the intention of seeing him one last time before he informs his father that he's joining the FBI and never coming back. Things don't go as planned.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Martin Whitly
Comments: 1
Kudos: 44





	Behind Bars

Malcolm couldn’t push the words past his lips. His resolve seemed to gain then wane and right now, it was receding. Whole sentences bunched up in his throat, trapped, forming a knot he couldn’t untie - not with Martin looking at him like that. 

“Malcolm, are you alright?” the silver-haired surgeon asked. It was remarkable to Malcolm how quickly his father had greyed and he couldn’t quite put his finger on just when that change had taken place. That fact alarmed him. How had time run it’s hands through his father’s hair without him noticing?

Martin was on the edge of his cot that sat in his cage. Malcolm was in the cage too. Part of him wondered if this is where his future laid in waiting. He tried to dispel the thought. No...he didn't’ belong in here with the monster, he was only here to observe. Wear the Harvard sweater, tuck a notebook under his arm, feed the beast the treat of his company in the hopes that he might perform. 

“Malcolm,” the word was spoken more forcefully but it sounded muffled. Caught like the screams Malcolm had hurtled into his pillow in the days following his father’s arrest. 

“I’m fine,” he swallowed and lied. 

“You don’t look fine,” Martin sighed. The left corner of his eye twitched slightly. He was concerned. “You look two shades too pale and you’ve barely spoken the entire visit.” 

Malcolm could hear the rush of blood at his ears, feel the smacking beat just under the thin skin at his wrist. 

He wanted to run away and never come back.

He wanted to sink into the concrete floor and never leave.

With a breath to steele himself, he stood. 

This was a mistake. He shouldn’t have come. He couldn’t bear to be here, but he also couldn’t stand the thought of leaving. 

As his panic crested, his legs wobbled and his back met with the wall of metal bars. Martin watched him lose his balance and surged to his feet to steady his boy. He reached out both of his hands since they were cuffed together, and tried to grasp Malcolm’s bicep. 

As soon as the touch landed, Malcolm retreated as if burned. Since the bars were at his back, he slid awkwardly sideways. The touch, however brief, sent a sizzle searing up Malcolm’s shoulder that burst in his chest with a burn. The contact wasn’t what had scared him, but the effect he knew it would have.  
Of course, Martin didn’t know this. All he registered was the way his boy startled like a traumatized foal. All he could see was the tissue paper pallor of his son’s skin, the wide black pupils that swallowed his whirlpool eyes, the hushed quickening of his breath. 

“You don’t have to be afraid of me Malcolm,” he offered. 

His boy only stared at him after the assurance was issued. 

Of course Martin would think that he was scared of him - he was a killer afterall. But Malcolm never feared for his life in his father’s presence, not since he was a child at least. But not since then. 

Now he was 22 and about to graduate. 

He was supposed to come here for one last...moment...with Martin. The plan was to tell him of his intentions with the FBI and to serve up the letdown of his never visiting again. All of those unspoken things refused to leave his mouth though, which left him trapped, suspended in a moment he knew that he’d never be able to recover.

“You should lie down son, you really don’t look too good,” Martin motioned to his cot. 

Against Malcolm’s better judgement, he found his feet moving towards the sparsely dressed bed. It was pushed flush against the bars and the cinderblock wall. He laid down heavily on it and it groaned under his weight. 

The young man fixed his gaze somewhere else in the cage - avoiding his father but seeing the white of his hospital pant legs in his peripheral vision anyway. The urge to cry was strong, but he shoved it down as hard as he could. The result? The bunched up emotions exorcised themselves through his trembling hand. 

“Malcolm…” 

His name was spoken softly, with an undercurrent of concern and pity. 

“Lay down with me,” he said...or at least...he thought he said it. Maybe he only thought it? Nothing was happening. No movement registered in his vision. Time seemed to hiccup and still. But then again, that’s what time did in prison. It stopped. 

And then, Martin approached. He put a hand on the bed to steady himself, and then climbed on. 

Upon hearing Malcolm’s request that he join him, Martin was shocked. Just a moment ago, the young man seemed to want to be as far away as possible from him, and now he wanted his presence? It didn’t make sense. Something was going on. Something was wrong. If Malcolm had wanted to escape, he easily could have...Mr. David was never far. 

Lying down on the cot was awkward. There was barely enough room for one person, let alone two, but he managed. It was the closest he’d been to his boy in a decade and Martin was grateful that he had begun bribing the guards...bribing Mr. David...or there’d be no way for this to happen. 

Whatever *this* was…

“Talk to me Malcolm,” he whispered, voice strong but soft, imploring but gentle. Malcolm only raised his gaze at the request, which Martin was grateful for. This close, he could see every fleck of gray and blue that swirled in his boy’s sad eyes. He could follow the sweep of his lashes and feel the cool breeze of his breath. 

It was as if Malcolm had brought Martin to the doorway of his own little world; there was a promise that the older man might be let in. He waited at the threshold patiently, studying the young man’s face and wishing he could trace the rise and fall of his cheek with his fingers. 

Malcolm swallowed and Martin could hear the wet mechanical movement. 

There was a lot that Malcolm could have chosen to say in that moment. He feared picking the wrong thing. He paused for too long as he considered which path to take. He too focused on the physicality of the situation...the way Martin’s hands were cuffed together and wedged between their chests. The steady in and out of his breath. The high definition detail of the lines that traversed Martin’s face. Malcolm stared and focused on each crease, deciphering which were born of laughter and which were wrought from pain. 

Malcolm shifted, but couldn’t move very far. “I...I want…” the words fell away with a sigh of frustration. 

“What? What do you want? Tell me.” 

Malcolm instead reached out and took his father’s bound hands and pushed at them, making Martin open his elbows and extend his arms out and down so that they were no longer a barrier at their chests. It put his hands at crotch level, but he tried not to focus on that, how could he when Malcolm was moving closer still, slipping his arms between Martin’s body and arms and drawing him into a hug. 

His boy’s face was at his neck, drawing in shaking breaths as his hands gripped his back tightly. 

Malcolm couldn’t understand how he had lost his father, but he was right here, in his arms. He had him, but he didn’t. The contradiction was excruciating. Malcolm was the reason that The Surgeon was here. He belonged here. Yet, he wanted to get him out. He wanted to go home and lie down in his soft silver sheets and wake up in his blue flannel ones from his childhood. He wanted the smell of eggs and bacon and pancakes to waft towards his room and hear the shrill call for breakfast in his mother’s voice. He would ignore the command and remain in bed, as any six year old would - trying to arrange his face in the pillows so that the slice of sunshine spilling in from the windows couldn’t catch his eyes. 

He’d hear it, the soft creak from the door, the sound of weight moving over the hardwood floor. Barely. But he’d hear it. A smile would break over his face but he’d keep his eyes shut. Maybe he could trick him. No, he couldn’t. 

Big arms would wrap around him and hot breath would float over his neck. He’d squirm as the beard tickled his porcelain skin. He giggled and laughed and was weightlessly hauled from his safehaven of downy comfort. He twisted and turned in the same arms he held now, but knew that they would hold him fast. 

Martin’s laugh would echo through the room and reverberate in his bones. It was a deep and genuine sound that gave Malcolm the feeling of being firmly planted on the earth. Rooted. Whole. 

Soft. Martin’s hair was soft and he would grab at the hair at the back of his head. 

“Malcolm.” 

His name again, only this time, it sounded different. Strained. Tortured. A reflection of the tumult that usually swirled between Malcolm’s ribcage. Maybe it had a warning wrapped around the syllables. It sounded like something caught between a plea and a prayer. All he could do to answer was press closer. 

Maybe they would meld together and he could finally see if they were made with the same stuff. All he could think at that moment was that at 22, he shouldn’t be doing this, he shouldn’t be feeling this...this clawing need to climb inside and find safety and comfort in the very person who brought him pain and destruction. 

He’d had four panic attacks leading up to this visit and three months of sleepless torture. In the safety of his own home, in the mirror, he’d try on lies for size. Things like...it’ll be easy to walk away forever. He means nothing to you. He’s dead to you...or he will be soon...and then you’ll be free. 

But he was never free.  
Even locked away in his cage, Martin Whitly was more free than Malcolm Whitly ever would be. 

Malcolm’s right arm was hugging Martin, but his left arm was trapped. He extricated it and lifted it awkwardly before Martin got the hint that he wanted to put it under his head. 

The killer lifted his crown of curls and let his boy’s arm snake under his neck. His muddled greenish, bluish, brown eyes, watched the young man intently, looking for signs of what might be to come like a man with his neck craned up to the sky, waiting on a thunderstorm. 

Malcolm just brought his forehead to Martin’s and bent his trapped arm so that his fingers could reach the gray curls. He ran his fingers through them and Martin sighed. 

It was the most relaxed Malcolm had ever seen his father. For once, it didn’t feel as though he was plotting or scheming or manipulating...he was just...breathing. Martin’s eyes slipped closed as the fingers went deeper, letting each curl snake around his elegant fingers. 

“My boy,” Martin hummed, the words thick as syrup and rich as wine. They rolled through Malcolm with force and made him squirm. There was no room to go though. His body shuddered as it made contact with Martin’s chest...his arms...his hands. The man never moved his fingers, never slid his thumb along the arousal he could feel pushing against his hands. 

Malcolm wanted Martin to move his fingers, to open his hands and close them around his arousal in a vice grip. He wanted to be praised and have his actions reciprocated. Or he wanted to be rejected and receive the scorn he felt he deserved. 

Anything but this in-between. This was too soft, too intimate. A casual hold, an accidental touch. The way Malcolm could smell the generic soap Martin was forced to use. The way the scent of his industrial detergent clung to the breath’s width between them. Malcolm ached for the old familiar scent of Martin’s shampoo or expensive cologne. 

Martin finally moved, gathering enough boldness to brush his beard against Malcolm’s smooth face. 

That’s when the first tears slipped out and Malcom buried his face in the crook of Martin’s neck. He needed to hide but he couldn’t.

Malcolm knew that he would say what he needed to say to Martin today. That he’d leave and tell himself that he’d never come back. Maybe he wouldn’t for a year, or five or ten. But deep down, he knew that coming back was inevitable. It had to be. 

The alternative was too unbearable. 

He could already feel the chasm of depression opening beneath him, his footing slipping as his sanity gave way. 

He had to go - to stay away as long as possible. This was sick. He cried and he told himself it was sick, that he was broken.

“Sweetheart,” Martin answered his broken sob. 

He couldn’t answer with anything but tears. Burning, thick tears that slid away from him without permission. He cried and he remembered the year he’d spent in bed after his father was put away. The year he spent hiding under the covers and crying uncontrollably, the tears rolling down his round cheeks until there were none left and the years that followed that. … Silent car rides to Claremont and observing Martin behind the bars. The time when he was thirteen and his father had been uncuffed but on the other side of that slatted barrier...he reached out and laid a heavy hand on Malcolm’s shoulder, then ran it lightly through his chestnut hair. He’d gone home that day hard and locked himself in his room, beating his trembling hand against the wall repeatedly in an effort to get his hand to stop shaking. To try and feel pain. To try and make his erection go away. But it wouldn’t. And he gave in, tearing his closet apart for that one item. He found it and buried his nose in Martin’s sweater as he touched himself. 

He never told his therapist. Never told anyone about that day or about the dreams he had. The secret of his warped arousal wrapped it’s crimson hands around Malcolm’s throat and choked him. 

But now Martin knew the truth, he had to. Now The Surgeon understood why Malcolm reared away at his touch. It wasn’t out of fear of dying, but a different kind of fear, a worse kind. 

It’s why Malcolm had to make a vow to leave and never come back after this. He told himself that going into the FBI was the reason, but it wasn’t. He knew the real reason. Martin would know the real reason now that he could feel Malcolm’s cock straining into his hands. 

Martin could feel Malcolm’s hot cheek against him, flaming with shame and embarrassment. His boy’s tears rolled down his neck and wet his collar. 

“What do you want me to do?” Martin asked. “I’ll do whatever you want,” his voice was brittle with heartbreak but open. 

Malcolm sniffled and brought his cheek to rest against Martin’s. He pulled his arm out from the hug and let it rest on Martin’s hip. He didn’t dare move, even though he wanted to slip his fingers beneath the elastic waistband or run his hand along the soft curve of Martin’s belly. 

“Tell me Malcolm. I’ll do anything,” he offered again. 

“I just...I just want you to hold me,” Malcolm admitted, his own voice sounding foreign and strained. 

In the silence between them, between the breath and beating hearts, Malcolm could have sworn he heard the crack and crumble of his own heartbreak - or maybe Martin’s. 

Luckily, although tied together at the wrist, Martin’s hands were not chained to his waist. So he carefully moved them up and away from Malcolm’s arousal and over the young man’s head to encircle him in his arms. 

It was awkward at first, but then they settled. Martin ignored the way his right arm began to fall asleep under his boy’s weight. He pressed his nose to Malcolm’s hair and nuzzled it, taking in a deep breath. He tried to conceal his surprise at Malcolm pressing closer, molding them together, his insistent arousal bumping into Martin’s. 

Malcolm pulled in a shocked breath when he realized Martin was hard too. He tried to stay steady in the silence, to focus on the coolness of his tears drying on his cheeks. He wished that there was a clock or the hum of air conditioning or something, anything, but there was only quick breath and thick silence. 

“I’m a monster,” Malcolm pulled just far enough away to say to his father, the words skating over Martin’s bowed lips like a poisoned kiss. The older man’s hooded eyelids lifted and what of his irises remained unswallowed sparkled in the dimming afternoon light.

“You’re not a monster,” he soothed, “you’re my boy.” 

“That’s exactly why I’m a monster. I shouldn’t want this.”

Martin was terrified, a question hung at the back of this throat and he had to find the strength to ask it. He didn’t want to break this spell or lose this moment but he had to know. 

“What exactly is it that you want?”

Malcolm thought about saying it aloud, but that notion scared him. It was silly, but he didn’t want to say it, as if he was worried that uttering it would cement the sin. To avoid speaking it into the universe, Malcolm wriggled out of Martin’s arms. He hated the loss of the heavy warmth of his father’s arms, but he knew that something better would be coming. 

He could sense Martin’s hesitant curiosity and he wondered briefly how he had gotten to this point. The tables were turned, it was Martin who was thrown off his game and awaiting Malcolm’s lead. 

Malcolm maneuvered Martin’s hands to where they were prior to the hug - arms prostrate - hands at crotch level. And he began undoing his own belt with shaking hands. He didn’t have enough room to tilt his head down and watch what he was doing, so he instead stared into Martin’s eyes. He watched in real time as his gaze darkened and a flash of something needy and predatory shimmered beneath the surface.

Seeing that stare from Martin for the first time made something massive and heady roar to life under Malcolm’s skin. Arousal unfurled in every corner of his body and he felt lightheaded from how rapidly his breath was coming. 

Martin took the hint and reached inside to grasp his boy’s arousal. It was the first physical, sexual contact that Martin had experienced in over a decade. He knew that he could come from this - untouched - his fingers wrapped around Malcolm’s cock. It was difficult being handcuffed, but he did the best he could. Judging from Malcolm’s groans and the rock of his hips, he was being satisfied. 

Martin hadn’t fucked a man since John Watkins, but he tried not to think about that. Instead, he did to Malcolm what he knew felt good on himself, gripping tightly, twisting on the upstroke, sliding his thumb over the leaking slit, dragging his nail along it when he wanted to elicit a gasp. And his reward was watching his boy come undone, his brown hair flopping out of place, his expression twisting into ecstasy. 

It was clear that Malcolm wasn’t going to verbalize what he wanted, so Martin would have to try and do that for him. 

“I know what you want,” he purred, the words bordering on a growl. “I know what you’ve thought about…” 

“Wh - no...you don’t know what I’ve thought about...” fear rolled through his chest, but it didn’t gain much traction beneath the onslaught of arousal. 

“Don’t I?” Martin pushed Malcolm onto his back and hovered over him, abandoning his efforts momentarily to push down his own hospital pants and underwear. His boy had to use his own arms to help prop him up since his hands couldn’t leave one another. Malcolm unashamedly stared at the heavy cock as it dropped free and rubbed against his abdomen where his sweater had hiked up. He was large and gorgeous and Malcolm’s mouth watered.

“You’ve been thinking about this for a long time. Having dreams. Daydreams. I bet you’ve pictured me fucking you through the bars of my cell. I bet you’ve imagined me escaping and climbing into bed with you...chaining you up and fucking you senseless.”

“D - Dr. Whitly…”

“That’s not what you’re going to call me. Say it. I know you want to.”  
Malcolm squirmed and the flush of his cheeks travelled down his neck and across his chest, still hidden under his crimson sweater.

“Say it or I’ll stop.”

“No…” he whined, tilting his hips up to try and regain contact, but failing. “Gah..f-fine...daddy…” he forced the word past his teeth and was rewarded not only by the pleasure ricocheting down his spine from his own words, but also by Martin lining up their cocks and stroking them both. 

“That’s my boy…” the praise echoed through Malcolm’s black soul and made his heart soar.

Malcolm had to keep holding up Martin’s shoulders so that his hands would continue the movement without him toppling over. His head tipped back and his cheeks burned as he submissively displayed his neck. Martin responded by harshly sucking and biting the cool, pale skin beneath him. 

Once he had painted a beautiful purplish pink hickey on Malcolm’s neck, he dared to ask the second question that loomed large in his mind. 

“Have you ever done this before?” he asked after licking a stripe up Malcolm’s neck and breathing in his cologne. 

“Done what? H-had sex with a man?” 

“Had sex at all.” 

The full weight of his ice blue eyes landed upon his protector, his tormentor. “No...I’ve never…” the words stung so he let them slip away. 

“Do you know how to pick handcuffs?”

He was surprised at the switching of the topic, of the ease with which Martin had just...accepted his answer. 

“Yes… Well, it depends… with what I’d use to pick it.” 

“Good. I have a thin metal rod under my mattress.”

“Okay…”

“You’re going to grab it and use it to get my cuffs open.”

“Alright...and then?” 

“And then I’m going fuck you.”


End file.
